


Shattered

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Maze, Angst, Dark Past, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Panic Attacks, Possible Character Death, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Worried Minho, Worried Thomas, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-13 13:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His therapist recommended he write in the journal, and he does; every day. On his good days, he'll jot down a paragraph or so on how his day went, blah blah blah. On the bad days, however... There are never words written on those days. Never words; only harsh sketches, all of which are done in pen, pressing so hard against the paper that it dents into the next few blank pages.</p><p>The drawings are beautiful, no doubt; done with a precise, yet quick hand, drawn delicately, yet carelessly. Every single one of the sketches is of the same thing, but always different. A mirror. A shattered mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes made are my own. Apologies. I don't often post this depressing of stuff, so I apologize in advance if I used information incorrectly or am exaggerating certain things too much. Just know that this is a work of fiction, so please don't be too offended by it.

His therapist recommended he write in the journal, and he does; every day. On his good days, he'll jot down a paragraph or so on how his day went, blah blah blah. On the bad days, however... There are never words written on those days. Never words; only harsh sketches, all of which are done in pen, pressing so hard against the paper that it dents into the next few blank pages.

The drawings are beautiful, no doubt; done with a precise, yet quick hand, drawn delicately, yet carelessly. Every single one of the sketches is of the same thing, but always different. A mirror. A shattered mirror. Every time, there's a person looking in the mirror, always the same person. Always with the same dead eyes. Their face is strangely distorted due to the fragmented shards of mirror. Words, hurtful words, float around the splintered figure. Queer. Faggot. Worthless.  _Unwanted_.  _Pathetic. Waste of space. **Freak**.  **Mistake-**_

Newt slams his journal shut and stands up hurriedly, his chair falling back onto the floor with a loud thud. People are staring, he knows they are. People do little else. Knowing this only makes him feel nauseous. He squeezes his eyes shut momentarily, releasing a shuddering breath before grabbing his rucksack and cramming his journal inside, zipping it up and swinging it over his shoulders.

He catches a glimpse of someone - a woman - in the peripherals of his vision, walking towards him. She looks concerned. But that isn't right. No one's ever concerned.

Newt stumbles away from the table he's been sitting at, chair lying forgotten on the floor, and speeds towards the bathroom. He'd seen it on his way in, made sure to remember the location in case something like this happened. He knew it would. It seems as if it always does on his bad days.

He pushes the door open roughly, struggling with the handle, feeling the too-familiar burn of tears in his eyes. He suppresses them, refusing to cry. The tears had never shown him mercy or helped or consoled him. Crying is pointless.

The door slowly inches shut on its own, so Newt doesn't bother messing with it. Normally, he would have taken the time to go over and lock the door. But he's preoccupied at the moment, his concentration centered on the contents in his bag. He presses his back up against the far wall, the one opposite of the bathroom door. He sets his rucksack on the floor next to him. He clumsily opens one of the smaller pouches on his bag, almost immediately finding what he's searching for, what he needs.

Newt yanks the left sleeve of his jacket up to his elbow, revealing old scars. The cool press of silver against his skin has his already tense muscles stiffening up even more. He hates cutting. He hates the blood, the scars, the necessary sweaters in the middle of the summer. He hates all of it. But it helps. He would never be able to explain it to anyone who asks, he's certain. It's almost as if the cuts are a way for the emotional pain to escape in rivulets of blood. It numbs him to the emotional pain, overtaken by the physical. It's almost addicting, in a way.

Then he cuts. His left forearm bares evidence of a difficult life. Scars, old and new, litter the surface, painting the canvas that is his body. Some of the markings are still red and fresh, scattered across his skin. Still, Newt manages to find a relatively clear spot on his forearm, and he slashes that blade with the precision of a true artist. For that's what he is.

Normally he does four. By the time he completes his sixth, fully intending to move onto his seventh, a sharp intake of breath captures Newt's attention, causing his razor to slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground. He eyes dart up to the doorway, where a young man (perhaps about his age) stands, whiskey eyes wide with shock. Then Newt realizes; he hadn't locked the door.

Newt knows the color has drained from his face, and he tries to turn his arm away from the stranger, muscles tense as tight coils of wire. He knows that he's shaking, can feel it, breath hitching in his throat. Even if the man hadn't seen the cuts, blood is flowing steadily out of the lacerations, dripping onto the filthy, off-white tile floor. Usually he doesn't cut as deep as he had. To make things worse, Newt feels that burning feeling in his eyes again, and his vision blurs as he looked down at his chest, tears dotting the cloth of his shirt. He's pathetic.

But then the person is stepping fully into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Unlike Newt, he actually locks it. Hearing the door click shut, Newt looks up through wet eyelashes at the stranger, jaw trembling. The man then turns, biting his lower lip, hesitating. It's quiet for a few moments, aside from the almost soothing rhythmic tapping of droplets of blood slipping off Newt's arm and hitting the tile.

Then stranger seems to snap out of his slight daze then, eyes narrowing in concentration. Newt is almost certain he's hallucinating when he notices the look in the stranger's eyes. He looks... concerned, worried. Almost... caring?

"Hey, it's okay, don't cry," he says softly. Unlike what Newt would've expected, the man's face shows no pity. He steps closer to Newt, but stops when he sees him shrink back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them against his body tightly. Newt is just beginning to feel slightly light-headed, though part of that can be blamed on how little of breaths he was taking. He knows the symptoms of an impending panic attack. And apparently so does the stranger.

"It's all right. Just breathe, okay? Deep breaths," he instructs gently, taking a few steps closer and sitting down beside Newt, who's shaking his head almost frantically.

"It's not, no, it's not. It's n-never okay," Newt chokes out, jaw trembling as he speaks, panicking slightly as he finds himself unable to take in the oxygen he needs, gasping. A flash of alarm sparks in the stranger's eyes, though it quickly becomes masked with a look of surprisingly calm concern. He seems to ignore the bleeding cuts and instead rests his hands lightly on Newt's shoulders, causing Newt to look at him. His expression shows very little, though he radiates with compassion. He takes a long, deep breath and releases it slowly. Shuddering, Newt attempts to copy the motion, releasing a frustrated, panicked half-sob when he is unable to.

"Hey, hey, it's all right. Don't freak out. Watch, do it just like me," the stranger nods, taking a long breath through his nose and exhaling slowly out his mouth. Newt, hands now clenched into trembling fists, squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a shaky breath, holding it in for a second before releasing it in a rush, eyes flitting open. The stranger smiles and nods once more.

"Just relax, you're doing great. Deep breaths," he repeats, hands hesitantly leaving Newt's shoulders once he manages to draw in a few breaths, his racing heart calming to a semi-normal, if a bit quick, pace. Usually it takes agonizingly long for his mum to calm him down when he has panic attacks like that, considering she is almost always panicking just as bad as Newt during those situations. But with the calm collectedness of this brunet sitting in front of him, he feels so much less pressure to relax.

Newt watches, still taking slightly shaky breaths, as the stranger reaches over and pulls a few squares of toilet paper from the roll, folding them up neatly. With extreme tenderness, he presses them against Newt's fresh cuts, all of which are in semi-slanted line. The cuts are deep, all of them about half a centimeter apart, none the same length. The man applies light pressure, causing Newt to whimper quietly, flinching at the flare of pain it causes.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," the brunet mutters, wincing sympathetically. Blood soaks through the thin layers of soft toilet paper quickly, but the man simply leans over and grabs a bit more, folding it like he had previously and removing the reddened sheets, replacing them with the clean ones. The process is repeated a few times, the blood lessening each time, until it stops completely. Even after this, the brunet rips off three more squares of toilet paper, though instead of placing them on Newt's arm, he lays them over the droplets on the floor, wiping them up with ease. He definitely doesn't appear to be squeamish around blood, that much is certain.

 _Maybe he's done this before_ , Newt thinks.

Once he's thrown the stained toilet paper in the toilet and flushed, the brunet focuses his attention back on Newt, peering at him with an intensity that makes Newt shift in discomfort. Who is this guy? Why did he help him?

"Do you happen to have any type of bandages in your bag?" he asks finally. Newt chews his lip and nods faintly. His mind is still blissfully half-numb from the pain, but the other half of his brain is a whirlwind of questions. He just can't grasp onto one to ask.

"...Who are you?" Newt blurts abruptly, shocking the other boy into looking up at him with raised eyebrows. Still, he doesn't hesitate to answer, turned his body slightly to that he's still facing Newt as he rummages through his bag for bandages.

"Name's Thomas. I, uh...well, I work here. Summer job," he explains. Newt can see that Thomas has some pressing questions too, but he obviously doesn't want to seem rude. Before the awkwardness can properly settle in the air, Thomas pulls out a small roll of gauze dressings and a few cotton pads from Newt's bag. He sets them on the floor beside him, zipping the bag shut. Newt doesn't miss the way he intentionally avoids the razor still laying on the floor.

"No disinfectant or anything?" Thomas questions. Newt shakes his head, adding a small shrug for affect.

"Ran out yesterday." Thomas's features seem to darken at that. Even though he'd seen the previous scars firsthand, it is evident that he'd been hoping that this is the first time Newt has been cutting, at least in a long while. There goes that optimistic thought right out the window.

"Right," he says simply in reply, though the word is choppy, almost a growl. Newt pays it no mind, instead allowing himself to zone out, staring blankly at some area of the wall in front of him. Thomas begins carefully wrapping his arm, ensuring that the dressings are snug, but not too tight. He leans back on the heels of his hands once he finishes, releasing a long sigh and staring up at the ceiling, legs crossed.

Newt snaps back into focus and swivels his head sideways to stare at Thomas, frowning slightly. Mostly, he's confused. His thoughts slowly begin darkening, swirling around him in a fog of depression as he thinks back to the entire reason he is currently sitting on a dirty bathroom floor with some random ass (though admittedly attractive) stranger sitting in front of him.

"I... I should probably go," Newt mumbles. A large part of him is desperate to escape the area, to get home and sleep until his scheduled therapy session at two that afternoon. School will be starting soon, and Newt is certain his therapist will bring this up, ask him what his plans are. There is only one school in the immediate area, understandably small for such a little town, called Garrett High School. Having moved to the United States (Indiana, specifically) only a month and a half ago, Newt isn't exactly eager to start being forced to socialize and do schoolwork. It's only his junior year as well (referred to still as 'Secondary School' back in London), and he has one more after this before college.

But a smaller part of him, a rather irrational part, Newt's sure, wants to stay with this nice stranger. He almost believes Thomas offers safety, protection. Something Newt feels he's without for months. And if Thomas is about the age Newt is assuming, that means he probably is going to the same high school as well.

"Maybe... Brenda's probably wondering where I am." Thomas stands unsurely, a small frown creasing his forehead. He rubs the back of his neck, sighing once more. "I guess... I'll see you around, Blondie."

Thomas walks over to the door, unlocking it swiftly and turning the handle. Just before he can leave, Newt speaks up, the steadiness of his voice surprising even himself.

"Newt. My name's Newt." Thomas smiles at him and nods.

"Okay then. I guess I'll see you around, Newt."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Garrett High School" is a real school and I plan on making multiple real references to it. Such as, we are referred to as the Garrett Railroaders.
> 
> Sorry this took so long to come out. With school and such, I haven't found time to write. And some days I feel more like writing than others. Anyways, enjoy! ^.^
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!

 Newt shuffles into the small room with little hesitation, journal clasped loosely in his hands and backpack slung across his shoulders. Ava looks up from her desk, where she seems to have been reading through an organized folder, dressed in her usual white attire and blond hair placed in a tight bun. Newt closes the door behind him like he usually does, shrugging his rucksack off and setting it on the floor next to one of the two cushioned chairs sat in front of the woman's desk.

"Hello Newton. So, first things first, have you been keeping up to date with writing in your journal?" She motions to the black, leather-bound book in Newt's hands. He nods. Part of him, a rather large part, in fact, wants to tell her about that boy - Thomas - from the library. What would she say about that? How would she react? What would Newt even _say_ to bring that up?

Ava appears to have picked up on Newt's sudden uneasiness, leaning forward in her chair slightly. "What's wrong?" Newt shakes his head, frowning.

".... It's nothing," he mumbles after a few moments hesitation. If he encounters the boy again, maybe then he'd bring him up to Miss Paige. At the moment, however, it doesn't feel like the most important topic of discussion. Ava nods slowly, unconvinced, and sits back in her chair, tapping a pen rhythmically against the wooden desk.

"Well, if it's nothing, as you say, then we will move on. How have you been feeling as of the past few days? Better, worse?"

Newt hasn't thought about that today. He allows himself to sink into his thoughts for a few moments. Most depressing thoughts, most thoughts in general, actually, have been shoved to the back of his mind since the day before, replaced with buzzing questions about the strange teenager from the other day. "Actually, today's been great. I woke up the morning, and my leg didn't hurt as much as usual, which is good. Still took my anti-depressants, though." Newt doesn't bother to mention that he just takes them in hopes that they'll help, that they usually don't do anything for his depression.

"That's good." Ava fills out an empty column on a printed sheet of paper in front of her. She speaks up again as she writes in the empty margins. "I'm sure you already know exactly where this conversation is headed, but I'm curious as to what you plan to do schooling-wise, as the school year at Garrett begins in eleven days." Newt shrugs, mulling over her words for a few moments.

"I'm not.... I don't know," he admits. "I mean, I know I have to take the required classes like History and Maths and such, but that also gives me a bit too much free time in my schedule. Mum said I should pick an optional class or two," he explains. Ava ponders this for a moment, her tapping of the pen on her desk faltering slightly before resuming.

"And what classes are you considering?"

"I don't know.... I'd probably only need to add in two for the year, because I do want  _some_ bloody free time. But I honestly don't even know what classes there are to choose from." Ava smiles slightly at that, flipping through a small stack of papers before finding whatever she was looking for and sliding it towards Newt.

"I'm not sure about during school hours, but this is a list of extracurricular activities. Teams; clubs, if you will. There's English Team, Math Club, Book Club, Tree Huggers-"

"'Tree Huggers'?" Newt questions, eyebrows slanting downwards into a frown as he takes the paper, skimming over the activities. Just beneath the 'Swim Team', the words 'Tree Huggers' are printed.

"Yes. From what I understand, they work both during school and sometimes after school. During school, they have meetings and discuss ideas to better the environment and such, making presentations for rallies and posters to put up around the campus. Every Thursday, they meet directly after school and the teacher in charge, Mrs. Crager, drives the group to the animal shelter. It's optional to go, and from what I hear, only a small amount of them do; perhaps about seven or so students."

Newt slowly scans over the other activities on the list, noting that most of them involve some sort of physical activity or above-average intelligence in some subject or another. A few of the events Newt finds slight interest in include: The Writing Club, The Photography Club, Concert Band, and Tree Huggers. He doesn't know how to play an instrument, but it would certainly take up time in his day. One of the only downsides Newt can think of is the expenses and the fact that he'll probably need a mentor to teach him. Marching Band is definitely a no go, however; his leg probably wouldn't handle the strain. But learning how to play an instrument, that seems like something Newt could do. And obviously he can't do every club he finds interest in.

"Um... I think the Concert Band and Tree Huggers both sound like fun," he says slowly. While writing and photography might provide  _some_ entertainment, Newt assumes they'd get boring after a while. Ava hums in agreement, handing Newt the pen she'd been tapping so that he can circle the correct activities. Once he's done so, his therapist leans slightly to her left to peer around Newt at the clock on the wall. She nods once more.

"Well Newton, it seems as if today's session is over." Newt raises an eyebrow in surprise and turns around in his seat. Sure enough, the clock reads 2:57. Newt is shocked by how quickly the session had flown by. Usually they drag on forever.

"Oh, er... right. Can I take this with me?" he asks, holding up the list. He proceeds to tuck it into his journal when he sees Ava's nod of affirmation.

"Tell your mother I said hello."

"Of course," Newt dips his head and lifts the straps of his rucksack onto his shoulders, the weight of the bag resting against his back. He holds his journal in the same way he had on the way in. "I'll see you later, then."

Newt leaves after that. That's the first time he has properly said goodbye to his therapist. He doesn't notice, but she certainly does, if the thoughtful expression on her face means anything.

* * *

 As per usual, Newt's mother is right on time, pulling into the mostly vacant parking lot just as he exits the building. He can't help but half-grin when he sees that she is still, quite obviously, in her pajamas. Newt climbs into the passenger seat of the car, dropping his bag on the floor in between his legs, twisting around to grab his seat belt. Once buckled securely, he turns in his seat, raising an eyebrow at his mum.

"Are you actually planning on getting dressed today?" he asks. "Ava says 'hi', by the way." His mum shoots him a sideways glance as she pulls out of the lot, a look of surprise mingled with delight. That's when Newt knows for sure that today is going to be one of his rare great days. Good days happen a few times a week, but great days? Those days tend to be reserved for once every few months. He hasn't had a great day since the incident that resulted in him and his mum moving in the first place.

"Rare perk of working at the school; you can come see me whenever you want, and, for the most part, I don't have to do anything over the summer. I'm not going anywhere else today, mister," she grins. Newt chuckles quietly, shakes his head. Because Garrett is such a small school, they hadn't had a school psychologist. Until Newt and his mum moved here, at least. His mum got the job rather quickly.

"Are you sure about that? I dunno, you think we could go to the movie theater and watch that new Sherlock release?  _The Abominable Bride_?" he inquires without hesitation. "It's only in theaters for two days, so we'll be stuck waiting for the buggin' DVD if we wait." One thing Newt has come to love about his mum is how  unquestioning she's been throughout his entire ordeal. She can read him easily, knows when he's upset and when he's not. Maybe that comes from her being rather young for a parent (she had Newt at age seventeen) or maybe it's just her as a person, but Newt doesn't care.

And Newt hasn't seen her look so positively happy since they moved. She's practically beaming at him from behind the steering wheel, constantly shifting her eyes from the road to Newt. "That sounds like a bloody fantastic way to spend the rest of the day, if I'm honest. Doesn't mean I plan on getting dressed, though."

"You're going to go to the cinema in your pajamas?" Newt questions, eyebrows rising. His mum shrugs.

"Why not? You can too, if you'd like. It's not like I'm judging."

This is how Newt, clad in his red flannel pajamas, and his mum, in her smaller blue ones, ended up watching _Sherlock_  in the cinema with a large bucket of popcorn as their dinner and a medium soda each, complimented with two small packs of M&Ms.


End file.
